Swimming to Campeche

I know the air
well enough to bathe with it
feed the fires with it
live with it in me, we in it
delighting airfoils, it rushes
suddenly from pressurized places
into unobstructed sunshine, I’m

swimming to Campeche in
adopted waters of the new rivers*
flowing, oxidizing the ferric mischief with
its snail-flame, interest earning rust
scuttled man-touch, the landfill drifts
on the pant-legs of the gulf
the biosphere perspires, and we

build our cities within the folds
of its soiled laundry, the daytime
programming of geology’s TV
all the while, without
really meaning to

* Geologically speaking, all rivers are young. See: John McPhee, Rising from the Plains.